behind accumulating clouds this morning;
reappears; it seems seduction, then the going
under Earth again as if the word ‘indefinite’
describes reality, as if life’s rhythm
is a romance without end. Yet rivers are not
stepped in twice. Time and i will not begin again
even if my father floated in a kiss good night, which he won’t
or poet Verhaeren fall down counting hours
which he did.
images of loss, rough
drafts with more than half left out, what went before
the make-up hours at the drawing board. The ambiguity
come down to this: life’s unambiguous
pain’s a gift that brings back mini-odysseys,
events endured, and yet the non-stop minutes hesitate
most surely at what isn’t, always there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem